


Orphans of Etro

by SoftRegard



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Eventual Romance, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Solheim, Time Travel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftRegard/pseuds/SoftRegard
Summary: [DISCONTINUED]At the behest of Eos’ forgotten goddess, Etro, Noctis is returned to the world of the living - 2000 years before his time, during the fall of ancient Solheim. His mission? Eradicate the starscourge and keep Ardyn from ever becoming the Immortal Accursed, thereby preventing the suffering of a new timeline and healing the wounds caused by the Etro's mistakes.Noctis had thought that dying for the cause would have been the hardest of all his trials, but he's not prepared for how difficult being alive again would be - that, and coming to know the man behind the monster, who will help him learn more about himself that he's ever thought possible.





	1. Chapter One - The Waking World

**Author's Note:**

> I'll admit, this is entirely self-indulgent, borne out of two needs:
> 
> 1) I'm a disgusting Ardyn apologist and need more fic, and  
> 2) Square didn't do nearly enough world-building to satisfy my nerd ass, so I wanted to do some myself - and what better context to do it in than pre-canon where there's very little to dispute my made-up fancies? At least, until Episode Ardyn comes out and most likely sets this fic on fire. 
> 
> Un-beta'd. Enjoy!

It’s quiet, in that peaceful, glorious way that only nature can be.

He can feel the light of the sun beating a drum against his eyelids and he wakes to clear blue skies and a breeze on his face. There's the crisp scent of grass, and the heavier notes of earth in his nose. Blearily, Noctis looks around him - rubbing at his eyes with one hand and feeling the ground with the other. There's the dirt, the grass, and rocks - he’s in a field it seems, atop a small hill.

But he recognizes nothing: it looks like it could be any patch of land in Cleigne or even Duscae, no buildings in sight.

Noctis glances down at himself and sees his suit, the one he’d worn underneath his raiments. Passing his fingers along his chin and jaw, he feels the grainy presence of stubble. Brought back, it seems, as he was the day he died.

 _Couldn’t spring for my young, spry body?_ He thinks as he stands, wincing at the pinch in his joints. The old injury in his leg twinges, too. When he had woken from his sleep in the Crystal, there had been too much to do to take stock of the changes in his body. And knowing what he would have to do to end the eternal night meant that he wasn’t going to be around in it for long, anyway.

Now though, he figures that sleeping on hard ground is probably off of the agenda. No more nights under the stars, then.

 _No camping to worry about that..._ He abruptly realizes he’s here alone, and that his friends haven’t technically been born yet - wouldn’t be for centuries… _Oh Gods._  

“What did I agree to…” he rubs at his face and sighs into his palms. Somehow, in that space between life and death - what was it, the Heart of Chaos? - it had been so easy to say yes, to grant the wish of a forlorn, lonely goddess. But now, in the living plane, feeling the very real ache in his bones and the breath in his lungs, he wonders if he’s made the right choice. Could he even do this? He doesn’t know anyone here. He has no resources. He doesn’t even know where to _start_.

 The task seems so monumental in the face of everything he must consider.  

  _If Ignis were here..._ Noctis thinks, as he bends to brush some of the dust from the back of his pants. _He’d probably already be cooking up a plan or three._

 With a grunt, he surveys the area - grass, grass, rocks, grass - and figures it might as well be time to get moving.

 “Sure hope they had roads back in Solheim…” he murmurs to himself. Was hitchhiking a thing back in the ancient times? Only one way to find out.

 Noctis picks a direction, starts walking, and reminds himself of his mission.

 

_Earlier..._

 

It isn’t like being inside the crystal or even in the space between life and afterlife, that swirling abyss of cool blue and soothing green light. It feels like something else entirely - like he’s at the complete and total end of something beyond his comprehension.

Noctis stares out into the unending blackness before him and feels like he’s suffocating. Or would, if he needed to breathe anymore. Death was convenient like that. Instead his head whips back and forth as he tries to make sense of his surroundings - black, cold, quiet. Eerily quiet, as though sound did not and _could not_ exist in this place. There is ground beneath his feet, textureless and unformed.

The world inside the crystal had been crisp; energy had danced around him, infused into his skin and breathed magic into his tiny mortal form. It had been a living thing, present.

But here there was nothing.

“Hello?” Noctis calls out, and there is no echo.   

No walls, then?

He takes a step, then another. No sound of feet on ground, either.

“...Hello?” He tries again, and the response comes from everywhere.

_“King of Light.”_

He jumps in surprise and nearly falls over the nothing that he stands on. He rights himself and tries, aimlessly, to look around the dark space around him. But like Bahamut, the booming voice had come from everywhere - so thunderous and powerful that he feels like he’s inside the speaker’s throat itself.

“Who are you? Where...am I?”

_“The Heart of Chaos.”_

There is a unique feeling, he can recall, that comes with speaking to an Astral; indescribable, powerful, shaking the foundations of his earthly flesh. The force of Titan’s voice had made his muscles ache even just in the hearing of it, and the sharp, screaming edge of Leviathan’s fury had nearly blown out his eardrums. Shiva had been different - Noctis had had the feeling that speaking through Gentiana for an age had trained her to soften her impact on mortals, and the warmth of her voice had softened the innate chill of her presence. And thinking of Bahamut still makes his fingertips numb from his might.  

Noctis is forever relieved that Ifrit never deigned to speak to them, can only imagine how painful the pyreburner’s voice would have been to hear in the midst of their fight.

The voice that speaks to him now brings him back to the feeling of living, the feeling of being a fragile creature of flesh in the presence of something greater. He feels paper-thin in its presence - feminine, but without Shiva’s practised softness nor Leviathan’s focused anger. Whoever it is, it’s even older and wiser than Bahamut.  

“I’m sorry...I don’t understand.” Noctis says into the air, not knowing where to look.

Something coalesces directly in front of him - a small figure, smaller than even he, slender in frame and bathed in white light that moves like a living thing.  

 _“Understanding is to be gifted upon the proven,”_ she says, from a mouth that doesn’t move. The powerful thunder of her voice has been made small as well, and the ringing in his ears winds down with it. _“And proven you have been, chosen king. A thousand times over.”_

She looks carved from marble, angular and harsh - though her face is serene in its stillness, eyes closed as if in sleep. Long, flowing white hair dances in the air like scarves of silk, threaded with glittering blue beads. She’s very beautiful.  

Inexplicably, he feels an intense urge to bow. So he does.

Nothing disrupts her aura of serenity, but Noctis gets the impression she’s pleased.

 _“Your mind searches through mortal histories for my name,”_ she says. _“Save your efforts, you will not find it. No place, no time, in Eos has been graced with knowledge of me.”_

“Are you an Astral?” He asks, though he has a sense of the answer already. Eos had only ever known of the Six - had they been ignorant to more, all this time?

_“Even the Astrals have forgotten me, such as they are.”_

“How...can this be?”

_“Beginnings are ever lost to time; the progenitors of all existing things, fated to recede from memory. The power of history can only reach so far and few are as far as I.”_

“Then…” Noctis tries to get his bearings. In the moment, it’s nearly unfathomable - speaking to something older than the Astrals? “May I...ask your name?”

_“Etro.”_

As promised, the name was unfamiliar; there’s no spark of recognition. He senses some semblance of the the age and wisdom behind it, though he imagines whatever scraps he can feel pales in comparison to the reality. The vastness of her far outreaches the Six. Noctis gets the impression that if he were still in his mortal body he would’ve shattered to pieces in the face of it.

_“You are confused.”_

“Very.”

_“Ask your questions, worry not - I would grant you knowledge, in return for the task I will ask of you.”_

“Task?”

_“First, clear your mind. Assuage your concerns. I would ask you in the comfort of knowledge, not in the uncertainty of incomplete fears.”_

“I...I see…” He takes a breath, and tries his very best to meet her at her level. “Then, I guess - who are you?”

_“First and last of my like, forgotten by Eos, the star I helped into being. Forgotten by the Six, who came after. I sought to return to the place of my creation, but it was not to be, for my journey was halted by violence, which tore me apart. All that remains of me in the mortal realm - what you call, the Scourge - begat misery and destruction. A destruction I had not meant to bring.”_

“Wait, what?” It feels like a shock to his system, the gravity of what he’s learning. “ _You’re_ the source of the scourge?”

_“My form in the mortal realm, flayed to pieces in the travel. One such piece, the meteor held by the Landforger. Incompatible with the chosen form of the Star, it wrought decay and contamination - against my wishes. And so, I have distanced myself from my own creation; it is an isolation most vicious.”_

No one had known the source of the scourge, scholars throughout the ages had theorized everything from alien life to a ritual cleansing from high powers, to condemn the planet for its sins. A few oracles of the past had even entreated the Astrals for answers, but none were given. It had been assumed to be sacred knowledge, but now Noctis wonders if even the Six hadn’t known the answer.

It’s a strange feeling, being privy to knowledge that doesn’t matter - Noctis is dead, and knowing the origin of the scourge doesn’t change the damage done.   

“You...you said it was an ‘isolation’,” he says, quietly, trying to gather his bearings as he looks into her unmoving marble face. What he thought was serene now looks sad. “And that the scourge wasn’t your intention...does that mean you can never come back to Eos?”

_“My exile is absolute. Should my flesh grace the Star once again, it would bring true calamity. This pain of separation, I must bear and bear in dignity.”_

“I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t respond but once again, he feels a sensation of gratitude from her.

“I guess I’ll ask - why did you call me here?”

_“Separated from the Star as I am, I still love my children. Even the ones that fell from grace.”_

A face flashes in his mind - eyes wild with malice, smile razor-sharp - and he says, “You’re talking about Ardyn.”

_“He was to be the great healer king, but his heart was ruined by jealousy and the rot of my blood. And you, too, born into a destiny most foul and a life cut short.”_

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t - I don’t mind,” he means it too, as he looks into her face. “I’d do it again. It was a good life." 

It was true. In life he had the love of his father, of Luna, of his friends; Gladio who pushed him harder than anyone else because he believed in him, Prompto who liked him for who he was and not what his name made him out to be, and Ignis who vowed to take care of him even when the cost was too high. Countless people who helped them along their journey, believing in him, giving him their faith, leaving their lives in his hands.

Short as it was, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“I mean it,” he says, spurred by the need to reassure this ancient, powerful being. “I died with my heart full.”

Shockingly, what looks like tears start to form at the edges of her eyes. They glisten despite the lack of light, and inexplicably he reaches out to catch them before they fall. One lands on his palm, cool against the skin, and he watches in fascination as it hardens into a tiny crystal - deep, deep blue with a throbbing rose center. Nearly a perfect replica of the one still in the throne room in Insomnia, back in the living plane.

“Wha-”

_“Your kindness humbles even me, King of Light.”_

The small crystal pulses with power, every bit as potent as the one’s used to, despite its small size.

 _“I would ask you one last favour, amongst the many you have already done for our like,”_ says Etro. The tears have stopped and her voice is steady. _“I would ask you for justice, and the chance to right my wrongs. Most of all, I entreat you to delay your deserved sleep, and once again bring peace to a land scorched by the madness of gods.”_

He looks to her solemn, frozen face. He hears the quiet plea that hides behind the pride of an immortal, cosmic force - the hand behind All Creation. Never would he have imagined being begged by a goddess. Never could he imagine saying no.

“All right. Tell me.”

 

*

 

Noctis is sure he could kill for a chocobo right about now.

He’s fairly certain he’s been walking for hours, but with no watch or phone who’s to say? His ankles are throbbing, the shoes not meant for long treks, and he’s sweating so much under his jacket he’s sure he’ll never be dry again. But in the distance, he’s certain he can make out a long strip of road - not the comforting sight of pavement, but a well-kept dirt road.

Ancient Solheim had magitek and airships - somehow Noctis had assumed that cars were a no-brainer. Seems though, he might be wrong.

When he reaches the side of the road, Noctis allows himself a moment to collapse on the ground and take a breather. He groans as he sits, legs stretched out in front of him and leaning back on one hand. Reaching up with the other, he pops open a couple buttons and fans himself with his shirt. He entertains the idea of summoning Shiva just to have a nice blast of frost to cool him down. Not that he even could anymore, but it’s a nice image.

_I’ve been less sticky in actual swamps..._

Luck is on his side however, because it doesn’t take long before he hears something familiar in the distance - chocobo claws galloping on hard dirt. Squinting, he can make out a large shadow on the horizon. It seems like a whole convoy - on carriages?

He stands as they approach and he’s amazed when the sight of them becomes clearer: an _actual_ procession of chocobo-drawn carriages, around a dozen of them. The chocobos are the standard bright yellow, though he can make out a couple of white ones in the mix - even one inky black - and the carriages themselves look considerably more economical than he would’ve assumed. All the artwork of ancient times he’s seen in the museums and schoolbooks made everything in Solheim out to be covered in filigree and absurd decadence. After all, wasn’t that the original sin that drew the wrath of Ifrit? Instead the cabins are dark wood, simply-shaped, with only the barest of golden ornamentation along the doors and roofs.

At the head of the procession one of the coachmen - the one with the single black chocobo - notices Noctis and waves, a curious look on his face. Noctis quickly waves back and shouts, “Hey!”

 _Please understand me_. He hadn’t given it much thought before, but he hopes they share a common tongue. It would just be Noctis’ luck to be sent back to a time where no one understands him.

“Hello there?” the coachman tugs on the reins to stop his chocobo when they come near; the rest of the procession keeps trudging forward. The chocobo chirps happily at him when he glances at it. “What are you doing all the way out here, stranger?”

The accent is way off, but it's the same language after all. This he can deal with.

“I-I got robbed…” he realizes he didn’t have much of a plan for when someone _did_ stop for him, and hopes the man doesn’t call him out on his poor acting skills. “Someone grabbed me and...dumped me way out here. Please, can I maybe hitch a ride?”

The coachman looks at him in disbelief. His face is weathered, well into middle age, but kind. The clothes he’s wearing don’t tell Noctis much about him; his robes are nice, clean, and functional, secured at the waist by a neat sash. There’s gloves on his hands to protect from the roughness of the reins, and distantly, they remind him of Ignis.  

“All the way out _here_? Whatever would be the point?”

“I...don’t know,” Noctis desperately hopes the man doesn’t decide to ride off. He can’t be certain anyone else is going to show up any time soon, and his whole body hurts from the walk. “They knocked me out and I woke up here. Please, sir, I’m desperate.”

“Well, I -”

“Remus? Is something the matter?”

The voice comes from inside the cabin and Noctis is pretty sure the cosmos are fucking with him, because the door opens and a familiar head pops out from inside. That shade of red-violet is unmistakable, as are the peculiar gold of those eyes -

“Ardyn…!”

The man himself blinks, looking him over in curiosity, one of his sharp brows raised. He’s a bit younger than version Noctis knows. His hair is longer too - tied back at the nape of his neck, with much of it falling loose in that familiar wild way. He also looks altogether more...vibrant. Full of life. It’s as though living with daemons for centuries had drained more from him than just his sanity.

Noctis breaks himself out of his reverie when he remembers that he just called this man by name. This man he’s _not supposed to know_. And now he has to scramble for some excuse unless he wants to look like a creepy stalker.

 _How did I_ already _mess this up?_

“Uh, that is...I mean-”

“Are you in need of a healer?” Ardyn interrupts, blinking at him owlishly. He doesn’t seem perturbed. “If so, you’ve certainly chosen a strange destination to find me.”

_Right, he was famous back in the day...oh, thank the Gods…_

“Man says he was robbed,” the coachman pipes in and glances at Ardyn for approval. “And wants to know if we can give him a lift - I presume into the city?” he directs the question at Noctis.

“I - Yes. Please.”

“Well, sir?” he asks back at Ardyn, who’s still inspecting Noctis like he’s something fascinating. Which he probably is, all things considered. And Noctis realises it’s absolutely in his best interest to hold onto that fascination as long as possible.

“Mm? Oh yes yes, of course,” Ardyn opens the door wider with a flourish, and nods to the coachman. “Certainly. It wouldn’t do to leave the man to die of exposure, would it?”

“Well…” the coachman still looks unsure, but waves Noctis in anyway. “Get in then, stranger.”

“...Thank you.”

Noctis climbs into the carriage as Ardyn closes the door behind him. The interior is a lush red, from the walls to the seat cushions, all trimmed with burnished gold. Still practical though, with little by way of extravagance - truly meant for travel rather than making a statement. It’s dark inside, sunlight blocked by the curtains drawn over the windows. Next to Ardyn is a large leather sack, and books take up the space on the seat opposite him; Ardyn casually moves some onto the cabin floor to make room for Noctis, who sits gingerly, more nervous than he’s been in a long, long time.

“Well now,” Ardyn leans back in his seat and clasps his hands on his lap. His clothing is shockingly similar to what Noctis is used to seeing him in, though simplified from the ornate and needlessly complicated Niflheim fashion. “I’m quite sorry to hear of your situation, young man. Desperate times do bring out the worst in men, don’t they?”

Noctis nods. His head feels light.

Ardyn is right in front of him. Right there. His whole reason for being brought back to life is close enough to touch - what does he do now? How does he even begin to tackle the mission he was given? The gravity of his whole situation, of everything he’s promised Etro, starts to settle upon him and he figures that just might be nausea that’s starting to claw its way to his stomach…

“It’s all right...I didn’t have much on me anyway,” he murmurs, seeing Ardyn wait for a response. The man smiles at him, easy, and it’s strange to see it appear so genuine. Even before everything went to hell, Ardyn’s flagrant attempts at being friendly had always come off insincere. “Thank you, uh, for taking me along.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Ardyn is eying him again, clearly curious about his attire. It doesn’t him him long before he asks, “I’ve never seen clothing such as yours before - where are you from?”

Now this was going to be tough: not much was known of Solheim, and even less about the dark period in between Solheim’s collapse and the birth of Lucis. Making it up was liable to bite him in the ass, so Noctis goes for the oldest trick in the book:

“I don’t remember.”

Ardyn’s brows raise in surprise.

 _All right Noct_ , he psyches himself up. _Time to remember everything you learned in high school drama...when you weren’t flicking pencil shavings at Prompto, anyway._

“Everything’s a little fuzzy. I remember being grabbed...and I think whoever took me hit my head, I - I just…”

Noctis lets all the very real stress he’s feeling seep through in the moment, and - helpfully - his hands start to shake: “I woke up in a field...and I don’t even know where I am right now…”

Once, during a routine backtrack to Hammerhead for car repairs, Cindy had pinched his cheek and told him that he had very effective “puppy eyes” and that he should watch where he used them (Prompto had whimpered with jealousy on the ride back). He hopes that’s still true, hopes that his face isn’t too old for them to work.

“Oh, you poor thing,” says Ardyn, hand on his chin and looking considering. “Forgotten where you’re from, and yet you know _my_ name of all things?”

_Shit._

“Yeah, that’s pretty weird, huh?” Hysterical laughter threatens to leap from his throat, and he tries to rein it in.

“‘Pretty weird’, indeed,” Ardyn smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. He doesn’t look suspicious though, and Noctis is starting to figure he might get away with this. “But I suppose my name has reached much farther than I could have anticipated.”

Ardyn chuckles a little, to himself mostly. It’s quiet and genuinely amused. His voice is really quite pleasant when he isn’t being an abjectly evil bastard.

“More to the point,” he continues, crossing his arms and giving Noctis a wink. “Everyone’s entitled to their secrets. I sense nothing nefarious from you; whatever it is you don’t wish to say, I’ll not pester you about it anymore.”  

“I - uh, thank you…sir.”

“A name would be convenient, though,” says Ardyn, looking expectant. “If I may be so _bold_.”

“...Noctis.”

As far as he knows, he is the first ever Noctis in the Caelum line, so there shouldn’t be any conflict with sharing names with current royalty. Or so he hopes anyway. Ardyn’s entire existence could attest to the limits of history - who’s to say how much more was hidden from them?  

“Noctis. Hm.” Ardyn doesn’t seem shocked, so he guesses he’s in the clear. “Interesting name. Well, I suppose you’re already aware of mine - that concludes introductions, yes?”

Noctis nods again and the relief of not being thrown out of the carriage makes his shoulders sag. He feels dizzy too. The strain of the walk to the roadside might be starting to finally settle into his muscles; his hands haven’t stopped shaking. Gods, he’s tired.

“Now, my guess is that you’ve business in the city?”

“Erm...which city?”

“...”

“Sorry,” he says, and he finds he actually means it. “I really don’t know where I am - none of this is familiar to me…”

“...My oh my,” murmurs Ardyn, somewhat dreamily as considers the curtained window. “What a tale you must be holding on to in that little head of yours.”

He sighs and flits his gaze back to Noctis, gold irises gleaming from the sliver of sunlight that streams past the crack in the curtains: “This convoy is headed toward the city of Vesper - ring any bells?”

The Vesperpool? There was a city there? As far as he knew there had only ever been the one small town near the Vesperpool, Meldacio headquarters, barely a village…

Noctis shakes his head. He can’t be sure if it’s actually the Vesperpool, and he doesn’t want to hazard any guesses until he gets his bearings. And he’s so sleepy he can barely keep his eyes open as it is, no point in committing to any comments that Ardyn might remember later if he can’t keep his story straight…

“Hm, poor thing,” Ardyn says, reaching into the leather sack at his side. “You look exhausted. Here, drink this - and this one, after.”

“What is it...?” This may be an entirely different Ardyn than he’s used to, but the thought of drinking anything this man gives him sends something in his hindbrain that remembers all the bad things he’s done skittering madly across his skull.

“The first is a sleep aid,” he explains, uncapping the slim bottle in his hands; the fluid inside the first is a pale blue, soothing to look at. The second bottle is akin to a small vial, filled with a dark purple liquid. “And the second is to keep away those bad dreams.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t -”

“Sleep, traveller. I’ll wake you when we reach the city - you clearly need it. I don’t mind.”

It’s a tempting offer and Noctis accepts, too exhausted to fight it.

“Thanks,” he takes the bottle and downs it in one gulp - it goes down easy, and tastes minty. He gingerly takes the second and asks, “...why bad dreams?”

“You’ve one of those faces.” Says Ardyn, mildly. He gives Noctis a pointed look, sharper than he’s seen from the man during their entire conversation. “Am I wrong to presume?”

“...No.”

He throws back the little vial, gritting his teeth against the bitter taste. He hands both bottles back and takes care not to touch Ardyn’s skin as he does so, unsure that he could handle that right now. As the other man places them back in the bag, Noctis feels his eyelids start to flutter and his muscles sag. Never in his life has he needed a sleep aid, and this one packs one hell of a punch.

Ardyn maneuvers the rest of the books and papers onto the ground, and takes one of the scarves from the cabin’s upper shelf to place onto the seat for Noctis’ head. It smells, faintly, of foreign spices.  

“Thanks…”

“Of course. Sleep well.”   

The last thing he sees before he drifts is Ardyn’s profile as the man looks out past the curtains again, his features carved by brilliant sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: I definitely lifted the idea of Etro's body being the source of the scourge from FFVII's Jenova, and the title of the fic comes from a boss in Bloodborne which also plays with the idea of cosmic beings and the impact their remains would leave on a local system (Orphan of Kos).


	2. Chapter Two - The Lay of the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis gets his bearings in this strange, distant place - and wonders if he's made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank goodness for Episode Ignis giving us an exploration of multiple/differing timelines based on choices. Not that it would have stopped me otherwise, but still, having it is nice validation.

_The Heart of Chaos..._

 

“This...won’t change anything that already happened in my time, will it?”

_“No. The life you left behind you will continue its course.”_

“Right…”

She was giving him a choice, out of respect to the gravity of the favour. Leave the peace of the afterlife, return to the living, and fight the scourge all over again. Usher in a new timeline of peace and prosperity...live, and die again in an ancient land far away from everyone he knows and loves - because, she explained, once he wakes in the living world he’ll live out the rest of his days there, successful or not.

Another sacrifice on an ever-growing pile, it seems.

_“All streams of time, all possibilities, emerge with all choices. And yet, none has brought forth my greatest wish - for all my children to know peace.”_

Etro grants him a small piece of her sight - and he _sees_ . Flashes of other times fly through his mind, so powerful in their meanings and so high in number that he knees nearly buckle; the possibilities seem nearly endless. In some, Luna survives Altissia to witness his ascension - left behind with the others on the steps of the Citadel, as Noctis fades on his father’s sword still. In another, it is Regis who lives, and he takes the final blow on his son with shaking, flesh and blood hands. And another, where Noctis is completely and utterly alone as he retakes the city - he doesn’t seek the details of that one, doesn’t want to know what becomes of _that_ Noctis’ friends.

There are others where Noctis lives to see the dawn’s light, where Ignis looks upon him with bright, seeing eyes. There are even a few where Noctis fails, heralding the end of days.

But none, as Etro told, where every soul makes it. Ardyn especially, doomed to live his life in darkness nearly every time, rotting away from his resentment and his daemons; cursed to be the one pillar of hate in the midst of everyone else’s endless possibilities. Noctis thinks, that for the mother of All Creation, it must be unbearable to see - time and time again.

“Am I...the first you’ve asked to do this?”

_“I have implored you every time you come to this place, in all of your forms.”_

“Have I ever said no?”

_“Very few times.”_

“So then,” he shivers, though he’s not cold. “It hasn’t been done yet. No version of me has managed to do it…”

_“...No.”_

_At least she’s honest_ , he thinks. _I guess…_

“But if I succeed,” he says aloud, for her, for himself. “It means a time without the scourge and everything that came from it, for everyone.”

It would reshape the war of with Niflheim altogether; Regis would live, and his final days would be strong, unweakened by use of the ring. All of the people lost to the invasion of Insomnia would live - the citizens, the Glaives, the traitors and the patriots alike. Talcott would never lose his grandfather, would never bear that guilt for the rest of his life. Ignis would never have to sacrifice his sight. Ravus wouldn’t die alone in the shadows, the last of his line, miserable and heartsick. And Luna...Luna could grow old, unburdened and free.

Ardyn too, would know peace. And for all the wrong Ardyn wrought in the world, Noctis finds it in himself to want that for him too.

 

*

 

He wakes to small hands gently shaking him - when his eyes focus, he sees not Ardyn, but a little old woman garbed in a pale blue smock, shoulders covered by a knitted shawl.

“Ungh?” says Noctis, very eloquently.

“Time to rise, young man,” she says, thin lips drawn into an amused smile. “Our gracious healer bought you more time - but the carriages need to be stowed, and the birds fed; we can’t have you dozing off inside one lest you get locked in. Up, up now.”

All of his muscles feel tight and pinched. As comfortable as the seats are to sit on, they don’t make for good bed, apparently. He misses when he could nap on any surface without worrying about his neck or back. Was this what getting old was like?

 _Can’t say I’m a fan_ , thinks Noctis, rubbing at his eyes. _Ugh_.

Being resurrected and then forced to walk for miles probably didn’t help much, either.

“Thanks for waking me,” he murmurs, squinting at her face through the gleaming sunlight. “Where is Ar- ah, the healer?”

“Master Caelum has gone to consult with the border patrol and refugee agents,” she responds, looking him up and down. “And has passed along a message - go to the camp market and find yourself an elixir, as he had none on his person during the ride. He’ll be back before long.”

“I see,” he nods, and looks out past the woman’s small frame into the expanse behind her; a sea of people, tents everywhere. In the distance, a large wall hides the horizon from view. “I’ll...get right on that.”  

“And a message from _me_ ,” titters the old woman, disapproval clear in her eyes as she tugs pointedly at his dirty sleeve. “Find yourself some proper clothes young man, you look positively _medieval_.”

 

*

 

In his distracted scramble to get out of the carriage and out of the old woman’s hair, Noctis took the scarf with him. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s most likely the same one Ardyn always wore in Lucis - it’s the same rich orange colour, broken by weaving gold. He tucks it into his jacket pocket and reminds himself to return it properly when he gets the chance.  

For now, he looks around and tries to get his bearings. The sight before him is strange, to say the least.

Past the large wall, he can see the tops of stone buildings - the city of Vesper, he assumes, built at the edge of the Vesperpool’s famous lake.

It’s not quite deja vu - but it’s _something_ , because it’s definitely the Vesperpool - but not at all like the one he knows. Instead of broken trees and moss-covered rocks, it’s an actual commune of tents and wagons, wooden stalls and campfires. It doesn’t look permanent, but still seems settled in a way that tells him one thing: he’s in a refugee encampment. Very likely, everyone he is looking at is displaced because of the Astral War, seeking refuge in the city of Vesper.  

He’s rarely ever seen so many people in one place before; the people of Lucis were infamous for their sense of personal space. As big and dense as Insomnia was, its citizens gave each other a wide berth at all times. He’d been told once, by a visiting scholar from Accordo, that the distances people kept from each other in the crown city made him feel very lonely. No one touched each other, he had mourned, no hugs or kisses on the cheek in greeting - it was as though everyone just existed in their own little bubbles. Noctis hadn’t thought much of it then, chalked it up to the man being a sensitive Southerner.

Now, he thinks he understands a little better, at the sight of this crowd. There are so many people, weaving around each other - a hairsbreadth of space between their bodies; Noctis has never been prone to claustrophobia, but his skin tingles just watching. It reminds him slightly of the crowded immigrant districts of home, especially after the influx of Galahdan refugees came pouring in.

He and Prompto had snuck into one of those districts a few times, mostly to get away from the stiffness of the Citadel - and for Noctis to see the _real_ parts of the city, the parts beyond the sight of the palace. One time, the two of them had somehow found their way into a street party tucked into the underbelly of the city - with hundreds of Galahdan immigrants celebrating a national holiday from the home country. The music had been live, played passionately by weathered fingers onto beaten, well-loved guitars and makeshift drums. Repurposed holiday lights had hung from the external piping of the alley walls and rotting window sills. He can still remember the smell of skewers and the energy thrumming from tall, statuesque people in foreign braids and leathers and face tattoos. And the taste of smuggled booze, much stronger than was usual for the palates of “City slickers”, as they had called him; one man had watched him and Prompto gag after a shot, beaming with pride.

He and Prompto had learned some specialty Galahdi curse words that night, and would text them to each other over and over for the next month as an inside joke.    

 _This_ crowd easily put any district in the crown city to shame; so much bright clothing, so many loud and boisterous people. The obviously wealthy are wearing long flowing cloths, rich in colour and extravagant prints, draping from shoulders and waists, and some with sleeves longer than wedding trains. There are jewels, scarves, headdresses - so many adornments that Noctis feels like his eyes are going to cross trying to track them all. He walks by a woman with so many bangles on her wrist the sound of them clinking still echoes in his ears when he’s long past her. The common folk are dressed a little plainer - simple, light tunics clearly designed for labour. Most are clad in short trousers ending at the knee, sandals on their feet; Noctis looks down at his fitted slacks and leather shoes and feels tremendously out of place. He sticks out like a sombre, black and blue spot amongst them all.

He hears murmuring from the crowd around him as he walks, catches looks thrown his way.

_“Strange clothing…”_

_“Think he’s a foreigner?”_

_“Why’s he so dirty?”_

He wants to huff a little at the last one, but the mud on his shoes and grit caked into the seam of his pants make him sheepish instead of offended. Noctis supposes he can’t blame them. Even during the longest stretches of their trip to Altissia - with no baths or proper bed for _days_ on end - he’s never managed to look so much like a grifter before. Self-consciously, he pats at the arms of his coat and watches the small clouds of dust rise with some embarrassment.  

 _I would kill for a shower_ , he thinks dreamily. _Hell,_ _even a bucket and sponge at this point_.

He isn’t sure where to even begin trying to get potions in this mess. He doesn’t even have any money.

“Ah - stranger! Sir Noctis!”

He blinks and whips around, seeing a young boy come sprinting at him. He looks almost like Talcott, with ashy brown hair and bright eyes. His sandals slap the ground in his haste, smalls rocks skipping at the force of his run. He comes to a stop in front of Noctis and takes a moment to catch his breath, small hands clasping his knees.  

“Er - hello there?”

“Greetings, sir!” the boy beams at him and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small pouch; the distinct sound of coins clink inside and Noctis blinks in surprise. “The Grand Healer Master Caelum has asked me to find you and give you this, to buy potions, he said!”

“Oh,” Noctis bends down to accept the bag. “Thank you…?”

“Myron!”

“Thank you Myron. How did you know it was me?”

“He said to, ahem ‘find a strangely-clothed, dirty man with vacant eyes’.”

_Jackass._

“Ah, right,” Noctis sighs as he stands again, putting the pouch into his pocket. He gives the boy a smile. “Well, I'm glad you found me, Myron. This is really helpful.”

“You are very welcome, sir!” the boy beams up at him, and Noctis finds he can’t stay mad.  

 

*

 

He makes his way to what looks like an impromptu marketplace, tucked into the heart of the camp. It’s so crowded that he can’t walk in a straight line. Luckily, his appearance makes others give him some space. He gets more than a few wrinkled noses and sneers from the ones he assumes are nobles, who swerve out of his way to avoid touching him.

It’s a bizarre feeling, to be stared at because he’s _weird_ and not because he’s the crown prince.

Noctis passes all sorts of stalls until he finds a suitable one, with bottles and bottles of potions lined up in a cloth-covered table. The vendor is a young woman, with red hair tied in a neat little knot at the top of her head; the shawl she has wrapped around her shoulders depict the Astrals, all circling one another in a beautiful tableau.

“Greetings,” she says, brow quirked up in curiosity at the sight of him. At least she’s not grimacing. “In need of some curatives, traveller?”

“Yeah...elixirs, if you have any?”

She perks up at his voice: “Oh my, what a strange accent. I’ve never heard the like before, where are you from?”

“Sorry,” he says mildly, waving a finger around the vicinity of his head. “Amnesiac - couldn’t tell you. It’s a mess up there.”

Sure, he’s not even trying this time, but she’s not particularly someone he needs to convince. And he could really use that elixir right about now. At her incredulous look, he pulls out the money pouch from his pocket and asks, again, “Sorry - but I need an elixir on behalf of...Master Caelum…”

Gods, that felt weird to say.

“Oh! Yes, erm...right away.” She seems to get her bearings and plucks a small, round bottle from a row. “100 gil, please.”

He drops the coins into the palm of his hand, seeing them for the first time - so much larger than modern day coins, heavier too, and the gold much more worn. The engravings are of Astrals instead of figureheads, and luckily there are numbers printed on them for him to count. The ones with the swords of Bahamut were the most expensive, and he places some into the vendor’s outstretched palm.

Ignis would have been fascinated by all of this, having the chance to examine ancient currency.

“Here you are,” the girl places the bottle of elixir gently into his hands. “Safe travels.”

He nods, clutching the bottle close to his chest as he turns and makes his way out of the crowded market. There’s a spacious spot by a tree, thankfully devoid of people, and so he sits atop the gnarled roots. Noctis pulls the cork out of the top and drinks the whole thing in one go, relieved to find that elixirs still taste the same even in this strange and distant place; cool like peppermint, with a hint of bitterness. He leans back against the tree afterward, head against the hard bark, slipping his eyes closed and feeling the potion do it’s work. Slowly, it invigorates him with energy and soothing his muscles, chasing away the lingering tiredness.  

 

*

 

Noctis does eventually leave the tree, knows it wouldn’t do to doze off when there are things to do. So he heaves himself up, the artificial charge from the elixir adding a spring in his step, and he makes his rounds throughout the camp again - taking in the sights, eavesdropping on conversations, getting a sense of what’s he’s in the middle of.

Lots of people talk of the Astrals, of the war. Many reminisce about their lost homes; others snipe about the living conditions in the camp. He hears complaints about how long registration has been taking, worried whispers of being turned away from Vesper.

And amidst all that, hushed mutterings about the scourge...  

Noctis comes to a stop close to the enormous wall, looks up at its expanse and wonders what the city looks like behind it; the textbooks had described the empire of Solheim as advanced - boasting technological prowess in the form of magitek.

Then, he hears a familiar voice and spies Ardyn a few paces away, talking closely with an extravagantly-dressed old man.

Before he can make his way over a rather grim, official-looking man in armour stops in front of him and gives him an obvious once-over, brow-raised and mouth pursed. At his hip is an ornate rapier, its handle a gleaming silver. In his hands is a clipboard with an insignia on the back that Noctis doesn’t recognize. The man’s face is severe, clearly tired if the bags under his eyes are any indication; Noctis imagines that he can feel the weight of the stranger’s stress coming off his stony gaze.  

 _Refugee officer_ , Noctis guesses. _Man’s got his job cut out for him, with this crowd..._

“...And you, sir? What’s your name?”

“Noctis.” It feels strange to have to introduce himself so often; nearly everyone in Lucis knew his face and name like a second nature. In another time and place the anonymity might have been refreshing.

“Surname?”

“Sur - uh,” he blinks and glances over at Ardyn’s broad back in the distance. “...S-Sophiar.”

 _Sorry Cid_ , he thinks wryly. _Gotta borrow just one more thing_.

The man gives him a strange look at his stuttering, suspicion plain on his face. His duties to the rest of the crowd seem to call him away however, and so he notes something down on his paper before moving stiffly along. Noctis sighs, running his hand through his hair and wincing at the grime. If there was one benefit to being dead, it was never having to feel unclean - he couldn’t say it was missed.  

Noctis looks up to see Ardyn finishing his conversation before turning around, noticing him instantly.

 _He even walks different_...Noctis thinks as he observes the lines of the other man’s body. Still nearly a head taller than everyone else. Broad across the shoulders. Long legs, and confident stride. He’s not nearly as casual in his movements now though, urgency clear in the straightness of his back. There’s very little of the languid, carefree chancellor in this man before him; the Ardyn he knew would never be caught looking so frazzled.

 _I guess when you’re immortal, rushing around is kind of pointless_.

At this point in time Ardyn Lucis Caelum is a mortal man, not yet poisoned by thousands of years of bitter anger. The reality of what he’s seeing at makes Noctis almost dizzy. Something of Etro’s guilt becomes a little clearer now, easier to understand than before. How can one person go so wrong?

“I see you’re awake,” Ardyn smiles, easily as ever. It’s more pleasant here, without that edge that it would have later - sharp like a knife, looking to bury itself into the next available back. Noctis gives him a nod in turn. “My apologies for not waking you as promised, but you looked as though you could use the extra time. I trust Agatha brought you my message?”

“She did,” he nods again. “I appreciate it - thanks for covering the elixir for me.”

“It’s no trouble.” Says Ardyn, looking him over with a small frown. He actually seems concerned, and the part of Noctis that remembers this man’s hand curling harshly around his throat is having a hard time catching up to that simple fact. Was it ever going to stop being so _off_ , seeing him this way? Normal? Not bursting with ill-will toward Noctis and everything stands for?

“Though I daresay you could use a real examination,” he continues, head tilting to the side in consideration. “Has anyone offered you anything to eat? Or facilities for a wash?”

Noctis shakes his head, “No...I didn’t want to bother anybody. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Ardyn waves away his words and takes him by the shoulder (with valiant effort, Noctis doesn’t flinch at the touch). “Come, we shall stop by my tent.”

He’s lead over to the outskirts of the encampment, far from the bustling crowd, and as they pass through Noctis is able to see the effects of Ardyn’s reputation for himself. People part before them like water, their gazes on Ardyn adoring and awed; many even bow their heads in reverence as they back away.

 _He really wasn’t lying_ , Noctis thinks, amazed. _Everyone...loved him…_

Ardyn’s tent is one of the bigger ones in the area, flush against some large trees and surrounded by a swatch of respectable space. It’s emblazoned with an insignia that Noctis _does_ recognize this time - the crest of Lucis, once the Lucis Caelum family crest, given over to the land itself to represent the service of the king to his people. If there had been any doubt in Noctis’ mind that Ardyn was who he said he was, it would have died at the sight of the familiar skull and wings.

Something aches in Noctis’ chest at seeing something so familiar. Like the unchanging taste of elixir, they almost feel like little pieces of home. Was it possible to be homesick for a _time_?

“Here we are,” says the other man, reaching over to open the flap. “In you go, now.”

Noctis nods and proceeds first, grateful to be out of the sun and away from the crowd. It’s much cooler inside, cozy too - glancing down he can see that the ground is softened by a lush, burgundy rug. The tent is so big there’s actually room for _tables_ , with books stacked on top, and a real bed tucked in the far corner away from the entrance. Dried herbs hang from tent’s support beams, small bouquets of flowers in water jugs of varying sizes line the edges of the space (with a pang, Noctis spots one made of sylleblossoms), and a large tray of fruit he doesn’t recognize lies haphazardly atop one of the tables. He wonders how long Ardyn has been staying here - the setup doesn’t look recent. It must have been here from before Ardyn’s convoy left to...wherever they went.

It would also seem that in life, Ardyn was a bit on the messy side - there’s so much loose paper and empty apothecary bottles lying around that Noctis can’t walk in a straight line without nearly stepping on something.

“Ah - I hope you’ll excuse the clutter,” Ardyn says upon seeing him accidentally nudge a bottle with his ankle. “I don’t normally attend to patients in my own tent.”

“It’s fine,” Noctis shrugs, watching him bend down to pick up a pile of scrolls and casually drop them behind one of the tables, out of sight. “I imagine you’re...pretty busy…?”

“These are trying times,” Ardyn responds absently, making a beeline for the large wooden chest at the foot of his bed. “When I first set out, at the first rumblings of a war, I never imagined that my services would be needed to this magnitude. These days, it would seem that the ailing far outnumber the healthy. Pardon me a moment.”

He wrenches open the top of the chest and from where Noctis stands he can see that it’s full of clothing. Before he’s prepared for it Ardyn is tugging off his gloves and overcoat - the heavy thud of them on the carpet makes Noctis jump and avert his gaze. He hears the quick rustle of fabric, and when he looks back Ardyn is clad in a simple, long black tunic, fastened at the waist by a strap of brown leather; the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Noctis can see the glint of something shiny around his neck, hanging over a faint dusting of chest hair and disappearing into the open collar.

It’s absurdly casual. Noctis resists the urge to ask him to change back.

 _Be familiar_ , he wants to say. _I don’t know what to do with this version of you yet_.

“Ah, much better...” murmurs Ardyn as he brushes down the front of the tunic. It’s impeccable as it is, and Noctis nearly rolls his eyes. Showboater. “I’ve never been one for ceremony, but those stuffy bureaucrats could not abide _practicality_ if it killed them.” He turns to Noctis and gestures toward one of the chairs at the table. “Take a seat, Noctis; let us have a look at you.”

 _Just like going to the doctor_.

The man tugs one of the other chairs for himself and seats himself opposite Noctis. Gently, Ardyn takes him by the jaw and examines his face, turning his head from side to side. Noctis resolutely diverts his eyes to Ardyn’s leg instead, unable to hold his gaze, and counts the green stripes of his pants. This is the closest they’ve ever been, he realizes, even when fighting. Even when Ardyn was gleefully crushing Noctis’ face into the broken pavement of Insomnia.

His fingers are warm where they meet his skin. Faintly, Noctis can hear the man’s faint breathing over the whoosh of his own.

Against the natural order, here they both are. Alive.  

Ardyn gently presses under the ridge of his jaw, asks: “Any dryness of the throat?”

“No.”

He takes Noctis’ wrist and pushes up the edge of his sleeve, thumbs pulling the pale skin taut over the tendons. The both of them are eyeing the winding blue threads of his veins - Ardyn, looking for something and Noctis, trying not to get distracted by the closeness of a man that he’s killed to save the world.

“Well that’s a relief.” Says Ardyn, as he pulls the sleeve back down and releases his arm.

“What?”

“No signs of the scourge,” he says plainly. “That nasty little curse from the stars. Growth begins at the throat and wrist - wherever the skin is thin. Now…”

He reaches back up to Noctis’ face, searching for something else.  

“Are you feeling dazed? Tired, still?” he’s asked, and Noctis shakes his head lightly. “I see. How is your stomach?”

“...I’m a little hungry?”

A quiet laugh, an amused crinkling of the eyes. Ardyn releases him and reaches around him to the table at Noctis’ back, slipping his hand into a small pouch. This close, he smells of spices - the same scent that clings to his scarf...which Noctis remembers he still has, tucked into his jacket pocket. “We’ll have you sorted with some food momentarily, if you’ll bear with me,” he says as he pulls out yet another vial. It’s contents are green, this time. Noctis hates green. “But while it seems as though you’ve no head injuries to worry about, I’m rather concerned for your pallor.”

“That bad?”

Ardyn pulls a small hand mirror from under one of the books and hands it to Noctis, brow raised: “See for yourself.”

He looks terrible: covered in dirt, with black rings under his eyes and lips chapped to hell. The blue tinge on his unusually bone-white skin looks like death crawled over a corpse.

“Damn.”

“Indeed,” Ardyn hands him the vial. “Drink up - that should have your blood circulating better and bring some life back into you. You look positively ghoulish, my boy.”

“Gee, you say that to all the ladies?”

“Only the ones I invite back to my tent.” Ardyn winks as he stands, making his way back to the trunk.

Noctis recalls their second meeting with Ardyn, on the overlook at the edge of Lestallum. He remembers talking to the man by his car, Noctis’ own inexplicable bantering boarding on flirting - _“How about I ride with you?”_ \- which earned him some strange looks from Gladio and Ignis at the time. Even as clearly untrustworthy as he obviously was at the time, something about Ardyn’s easy nature always seemed to egg him on. And now, as mortal man, it’s still part of his charm, still something that makes puts him off-balance, oscillating between wariness and the urge to prod. Just to see what happens.

 _This isn’t a meet cute_ , thinks Noctis, sourly. _You’re here on a mission._

He glances down at the green vial and sighs, popping the cork and choking it back - it tastes, as he feared, like vegetables.

 _You’re a grown man now - you’ve saved the world and defeated evil_ , Noctis thinks. _Don’t fucking gag_.

He places the empty vial onto the table behind him and watches Ardyn dig through his chest again. When the man stands upright he’s holding another tunic - this one white, with finely stitched embroidery of the Astrals all along the front and sleeves. He brings it to where Noctis sits, watching in curiosity.

“I’m afraid it will be rather large on you,” he says, holding it to him. “But I’ve nothing smaller, and you’ll have to make do with the trousers you’re wearing now. At least, until you’re permitted into the city.”

“...You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I don’t, but we can’t have you wandering around looking like a vagrant in this place, now can we?” Ardyn says, and his condescension is so like his future self that Noctis is almost relieved. “Tensions are high with the crisis, Noctis, let’s not alarm the good and _positively harried_ folk any further, shall we?”

Gingerly he takes the shirt from his hands and looks down at it. The fabric is surprisingly soft, finely-made despite its simple design. He glances up into Ardyn’s expectant gaze, and asks, “Are you normally this...generous with your stuff?”

And he gets another small laugh in return: “Not at all. I’ve dedicated my life to charity, yes, but playing favourites is liable to get one into trouble.”

He grins at Noctis, his lips curling back just a little - enough to show the sharp edge of his teeth. But the usual malice is absent, now such a distant thing. Cheekily, he adds, “But I’ve never been able to resist a mystery, you see, and you are about the most _mysterious_ thing to come dropping into my lap in a long time. I’m interested in seeing what unfolds around you - despite my better judgement, perhaps. For all I know you’ve dropped in from the skies to doom us all.”

Unbidden, a blush blooms across his cheeks, and he stands to turn his back to Ardyn as he quickly shucks off his jacket. The elixir from earlier had stopped the shaking in his hands, thankfully, and so he deftly undoes the buttons of his dress shirt. He hears Ardyn padding around the room somewhere behind him, boots heavy on the carpet, as he pulls his arms from the sleeves, wincing at how the fabric sticks to his skin. He hopes a bath is in his near future.

He slips the borrowed shirt on over his head, and that same smell envelopes his senses. In the back of his mind, the thinks he needs to ask Ardyn what he bathes with - it smells _divine_.  

Something bumps against his chest and he looks down - with a sharp breath he notices the tiny crystal from that other realm, Etro’s tear, hanging from a thin silver chain around his neck. As though it were a common pendant like any other. Faintly, it pulses with familiar power against his skin. Shivering, Noctis takes care to tuck the crystal under the shirt, hidden from view. He’s not sure about the state of things regarding the crystal in this world just yet, better play it safe.

Ardyn was right - it’s quite big on him, nearly slipping off one shoulder, and he feels a bit like he’s drowning in the fabric. The edge of the sleeves nearly overtake his fingers, and the white makes his already pale arms almost gleam. He couldn’t look more unflattering if he tried - like a kid playing dress up with grown up clothes.    

“Thank you,” he remembers his manners, turning back to Ardyn. “For your generosity.”

Ardyn waves it off and says, “Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Noctis. Tempting mysteries and pretty blue eyes aside, you are still a guest in this camp and as such, I will aid you in any way I can.”

_Pretty…?_

“Er - yeah, will do…”

Noctis shuffles, running his hand through his hair again. He supposes the next thing on his list is information, and who better to ask than Ardyn?

“Actually, about the camp,” he asks, sitting back down on the chair. “Can you...tell me about it? Fill in the blanks?”

“Still abiding that tale of selective amnesia, are we?”

“It’s not a ‘tale’, it’s the truth...” _Go ahead Noct, keep sounding totally unconvincing - it’s really helping your case._

Ardyn pauses, brows pinched and considering him with an unreadable look on his face as Noctis tries to hold his stare; he channels everything he remembers about royal court training - eye contact was key, Ignis’ voice rings in his ears, it is the king’s duty to face everything in front of him with poise and dignity. After a few heavy minutes Ardyn seems to give up and shrugs, muttering dramatically: “Well, I _suppose_ there’s little harm in indulging this strange fancy of yours.”

He makes his way over to one of the other tables, one covered in bowls, jars, vials...all sorts of ingredients that Noctis can only assume goes into those myriad potions he carries with him. Loose corks and dried plants litter the wooden top - the workstation of a busy, busy man. Said busy man sits, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll explain while I prepare.

He’s lining up a handful of small vials on a wooden rack when he begins: “The camp you have found yourself in is one of the busiest in the area - the temporary home of the most recently displaced.

Deft, artful fingers pull open the lid of a clear jar full of glittering black powder; he takes a pinch and distributes the stuff evenly into the row of vials. His movements are quick, practised. Noctis imagines he must have done this a thousand times. “As the gods continue to their war, the camps such as this one grow in size every day, and the cities find themselves increasingly unable to take them in."

“Why can’t they take them?” Noctis asks, watching as he snaps the lid back on the jar and reaches over for tall bottle. “Not enough resources? Or space?

“Oh no no, it’s not a matter of _resources_ ,” responds Ardyn, tipping the bottle carefully over a vial, filling it to the brim with a clear fluid. “It’s a matter of security...you see - the larger the population, the larger the risk of the city becoming the next target of the Pyreburner’s wrath.”

Noctis watches as Ardyn takes a thin glass stick and mixes the concoction in the vials - the black bleeding into a deep violet. When he finishes, he wipes it with a cloth and sets it aside, continuing, “Nearly all capital cities in the east have been razed to the ground - yet smaller towns and villages remain untouched; too beneath the gods’ notice, we’ve surmised.”

He reaches up above himself and pulls one of the herbs from its rope - and he’s tall and long-limbed enough to do it without standing, Noctis notes with a small twinge of jealousy - which he then drops into a pestle and mortar and begins to grind: “And so, the leadership here have the rather unenviable task of deciding whether or not to begin turning away refugees...or grant them aid, at the rather severe risk of endangering their own citizenry later.”

“That’s...horrible.” Noctis murmurs, feeling hollowed out. Insomnia had been a sanctuary for refugees, for the promise of the wall’s power and safety. They’d always been able to accept anyone seeking shelter, having so much land mass and generating more than enough resources to care for a rapidly expanding populace. Turning people away had never been deemed necessary amongst the leadership, barring personal xenophobia from more conservative members of the council.

But now Noctis thinks: what if things hadn’t come to a head when they did, with the false treaty and the attack on the Citadel? What if the war continued for a while longer? As they had lost more Lucian land to the empire, and as his father’s health had begun to decline, how long could they have held out until they found their hands tied? Until they had to turn people away at their doors and focus on securing their own borders against the looming threat?

Thinking about it makes him shiver. But he knows what he would do - turning people away isn’t in his nature. As far as he’s concerned, standing together against the threat is the best thing for all.

“Truly,” Ardyn agrees, adding more herbs into the bowl. “But it is a conversation that must be had, and had quickly. The gods will not wait while we deliberate.”

“What would you do?” Noctis asks, genuinely curious. What’s the opinion of this great and beloved healer of the people?

“It doesn’t matter what I would do, now does it?” retorts Ardyn, sounding amused. “I am a healer, Noctis, my job is to mend broken bones and deliver babies - and on occasion, chase away that pesky scourge - not chime in on matters of _national security_. A tad above my station, that.”

 _You’re going to be chancellor of a war hungry empire!_ Noctis wants to yell at him - shake him by the shoulders and snarl in his face. _You’re going to revive magitek and order the slaughter of thousands. Chiming into matters of national security is what you’re all about!_

“But you’ve got to have an opinion, at least.” Noctis isn’t sure why he’s pushing this, but something inside him wants to know that Ardyn would do the right thing; that Noctis didn’t elect to travel thousands of years to the past just to save a lost cause.  

Ardyn siphons the fine power into a small jar, stoppers it with a cork along with his little row of vials. He gathers his supplies as he stands, bones popping, placing them into the leather sack and hefting it over his shoulder with a sigh. The muscles of his forearms strain against its weight, and he stands crookedly to compensate. It’s strange - the Ardyn of the future always seemed so removed from the physical world, as though he was just drifting through, unbothered by earthly rules. Seeing him like this - weighed down, pulled this way and that, susceptible to heat and tiredness - was like looking through one of those funhouse mirrors he remembers from being a kid. So close to reality, but _off_.  

He turns to Noctis, and his face is tired beneath his ever present smile: “Opinions often do very little in the face of reality, Noctis. Whatever I may think, the leadership and high command will do their duty and I shall abide whatever decision they make.”

“What, you don’t think it’s a little unfair?”

“Of course it’s unfair - war is unfair. But as I’ve said I am a _healer_ , and healing is a simple thing, my dear: I am beholden to only one life - the one in front of me, in that moment in time. But them? Their duties are to the future of all. I’ll leave them to their decision and mind my own business.”

Noctis wants badly to retort - he knows all about being beholden to all, to the future - he  gave his life to see it safe and would do it again in a heartbeat. Denying help to people that needed it opposed everything he stood for, died for.  

 _“War is unfair”, what a load of shit_ , Noctis thinks, acidly. _You stalked a family line for hundreds of generations and nearly destroyed the world because what happened to you was unfair._

Did it only matter when it affected him, then? How selfish.

He looks down and realizes his hands have clenched into fists. Slowly, he takes a breath and uncoils his fingers, watching the colour seep back into his skin where tension had bleached him white. Dirt stains his fingertips, from where he had walked for hours to find this man - and for a horrible moment Noctis wonders if he’s made a mistake in coming here. When Noctis looks up again he sees Ardyn watching his hands too, a small frown pinching his mouth.

“I fear I’ve disappointed you,” he murmurs, voice light. He shifts the bag a little on his shoulder and tucks some of his hair behind his ear, eyes drifting away from where Noctis sits - a black cloud of resentment. “And for that, I do apologize. But I shan’t betray myself to lull you with platitudes of my moral heroism. If it pains you so, you needn’t abide my presence, Noctis - the rest of the camp is open to you, if you like.”

He turns to the entrance, stopping just has he pulls open the flap. The noise from the crowd swarms the previously-quiet tent, the bright gleam of the sunlight cuts a swath through the dark space; Ardyn seems to glow under it’s shine, his wild hair like a halo about his head. He hesitates, and that too pulls Noctis a little off-kilter. He says, “I have duties to attend to in the camp for the rest of the day. You may use this tent, if you wish - help yourself to the fruit. If you choose to stay, I shall send my assistant over to get you sorted with some food, and perhaps a bath. I’ll be returning at nightfall.”

And with that, he leaves. The flap falls closed, bringing back the quiet and the dark.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their interaction when you select "Ride with Ardyn" in Lestallum is *absolutely* flirting and you won't convince me otherwise.


	3. Chapter Three - Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis finally gets his wash, and meets a living legend.

He doesn’t recognize any of the fruit on the platter.

He picks up a round, red one slightly shaped like a pear; when he peels the bright pink and green skin, the flesh is white on the inside and dotted with little black seeds. He takes a bite and finds himself pleasantly surprised by its light, delicate flavour. Before he realizes it, he’s finished the whole thing and is nearly done a second helping. It seems he was hungrier than he thought, and the cramp that had been developing in his stomach subsides.

 _Didn’t miss feeling hungry either,_ he thinks, leaning back on his chair and sighing. _But damn, nothing like eating something sweet._

Death had its perks - but so did living, as he was coming to re-learn.

He’s calmed down since the tense conversation with Ardyn, and tries to not let his mind be clouded by resentment. Ardyn could think what he wants, could try and remove himself from the realities of the world as much as he wants, it was none of Noctis’ business - he is here on a mission. This was about so much more than him. Than even Noctis.

His mind flashes back to Ardyn wheedling him over the speakers in Zegnautus, to him dangling the bodies of the dead like puppets for his own amusement, to him driving a knife into Luna’s body, knowing that Noctis was watching.

Noctis quickly finishes off the fruit and tries to think of something else.  

The entrance flap opens and Noctis jumps, pulled from his thoughts. The visitor is the woman who woke him in the carriage, carrying a tray; Noctis spies a bowl of soup, and some skewers with meat.

Mindful of his manners, he gets up from the chair and helps her by taking the tray.

“Hello again young man,” she says, looking around the tent, settling her sharp eyes on the small pile of peeled fruit skin. “Master Caelum mentioned you were hungry, though I hope you’ve not spoiled your appetite with the dragon fruit.”

“Don’t think so,” he says, setting the try on the table. “I feel like I could eat a Behemoth.”

“A what now?”

“Er, nothing - _wow_ , this smells incredible. Thank you very much.”

“Tsk...strange boy…”

He doesn’t dig in just yet, despite the temptation. The woman begins to pick up some of the scattered items on the ground, seemingly out of instinct, muttering to herself about “messy men with no sense”. Noctis watches her for a moment, unsure if he should try to help, but _also_ unsure of if would be rude to rifle through Ardyn’s things.

“It would also seem that you could use a wash,” says the woman, picking up Ardyn’s discarded jacket and gloves, placing them neatly on the bed. “When you’ve finished your meal, I have a task for you, after which I’ll show you to the washing facilities.”

“A task?”

“In this camp we earn our keep, young man,” she says sharply, her eyes levelled against his and watching his face. The scrutiny there is sharp as a tack. “Friend of the Grand Healer you may be, we all pull our weight around here. Your connections will not let you ride for free.”

_She thinks…?_

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, earnest and firm. He stands from his seat and bows, politely. “I’ll do whatever you need, ma’am. I appreciate the help.”

“Hm.” Her eyes are shrewd, but after a moment of evaluation she seems satisfied. “Very good then. You may call me Agatha.”

“Of course.” He nods. “My name is Noctis.”

“Yes, I was told; strange name, that. Haven’t heard the like before.”

“Yeah, I’m...not from around here,” he shuffles awkwardly, wondering how many times he was going to have to do this whole song and dance. “So, about the ‘task’?”

“Eat first, Noctis,” she says, moving some of the jars of flowers out of the way so they're not a hazard. “You’re making me feel frail just looking at you. When you’ve finished, come find me at the outskirts of the camp - southernmost quarter, by the pond.”

“Yes ma’am...” he nods, and sits back down, thankful. The sight and smell of warm food makes his stomach rumble.

 

*

 

There’s children playing in the river, splashing each other and shrieking excitedly. A few paces away, Noctis sees a group of women doing laundry; poles have been set up near them, with lines threading between them to hang the wet clothes. Farther down the edge of the water, men walk the shallow waters with spears in hand, intently eyeing the water, arms tense with anticipation. Noctis has never been spearfishing before, no reason to with the modern poles, but he’s fascinated by the sight of it.

Agatha sidles up to where he stands, an empty basket in her hands, “I trust the meal was adequate?”

“Absolutely,” he nods, with a small smile. “My compliments - it was amazing. I really liked the skewers.”

“Hm, naturally.” Her mouth quirks into a smug little smile, and it’s kind of similar to the ones Ignis would wear whenever he really nailed it with a recipe.

She holds out the basket to him, expectant, and he takes it from her with a confused quirk of his brow.

“Join the men over there,” she gestures to the fishermen. “And help collect supper. I trust you know something of fishing…?”

“Oh yeah,” he nods and tries not to sound as excited as he is. “I’m sure I can manage.”

“Very good.”

She sends him on his way and strolls over to where the children are, admonshing on small boy for being too rough with his friend.

When he comes close to the fishermen they give him curious looks. Noctis gestures to his basket: “Agatha sent me.”

That gets him a wave of understanding nods and a tall, golden-skinned man with a long mane of thick dark hair stands to grab him a spear from a rack by the fire pit. He’s young, probably about Noctis’ age when he first set out for Altissia, bright in the eyes and devoid of any weariness despite the war. His teeth are very white, and his smile is handsome.  

“Here,” he says, friendly. “If madam Agatha sent you to work then you’d better work, sir…?”

“Noctis. And thanks.”

“Well met - call me Lajos.”  

He sets the basket down and takes the spear gratefully, testing the heft of it in his hands. Plain wood, finely-carved tip; along its length, previous users have scratched in their names, some with little notches for their number of catches.

 _Charmingly rustic,_ Noctis thinks, in Ignis’ voice. _Feels like I’m in a storybook._  

Noctis toes off his shoes and rolls up his pant legs to his knees. When he touches the sparkling water, it’s pleasantly cool against the beating heat of the sun. The smells around him are crisp - saltwater and unpolluted air; not at all like the industrial smog of Insomnia.

 _And the afterlife had no smells at all_ , he thinks. _I can’t believe I never noticed how nice this is._   

It feels a little like being on the road with the guys again, and his chest twists a little in longing.

“So - I could probably use a few pointers,” says Noctis, shielding his eyes against the brightness. “If you’ve got any.”

“Ha! I take it you’re a city boy?”

“Something like that...” Noctis grins wider, watching the shapes of fish twitching about in the water. Seems like no matter where, no matter _when_ , nothing will ever bring him the great peace that fishing does. World-changing mission aside, he’s a little excited for this.

“In that case,” Lajos has a big smile, earnest and eager to show off. “Watch closely!”

 

*

 

It turns out, Noctis is very good at spearfishing.

It only takes a few fumbles before Noctis’ basket is filling rapidly to the brim, with Lajos and a few other men looking on in astonishment. He’s outpaced most them an hour ago, and still climbing.

“Well, I’ll be…” says Lajos, whistling as Noctis cleans his spear after his last catch. “You’re a natural! What’s your secret?”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. He’s not going to admit that it was his training with polearms that gave him something of an edge, reflexes honed by fighting things a lot more skittery than fish. It doesn’t quite have the same charm as fishing with a pole and a line, but Noctis thinks he could very well get used to this.

“Would you believe me if I said it was beginner’s luck?” he asks, slotting the pole back onto the wooden rack. Lajos chuckles behind him, running a hand through his hair.

“Not one bit, stranger.”

“Then my lips are sealed,” he grins, catching sight of Agatha making her way over. “Have to keep some of the mystery, y’know?”

Agatha takes one look at his basket and crosses her arms, pleased in that restrained sort of way he’s only seen of the elderly.

“My, I would say that more than covers a meal and a bath, young man,” she titters. She gestures to another young man following her to pick up his basket. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Nah, it was really fun.”  

“Well, enjoying one’s work is certainly a treasure,” she responds. “Come with me, we need to get you cleaned up.”

 

*

 

Honestly, Noctis really was expecting something like a bucket and a sponge; what he sees is much more interesting. Tucked a few paces away from the main body of the camp, nestled in amongst the trees in a large clearing, is the designated washing area. There are multiple rows of stalls, all made of wood and secured with stone; there’s a telltale glow of magitek coming from the insides of the ones in use.

 _Guess I’m not roughing it that badly_ , thinks Noctis, a little impressed. _We camped in places with less going on than this_.

Agatha leads him to a vacant one and gestures to the wooden bench slotted up against the side of the wall: “It seems you’ve no clothes aside from the ones you wear, yes?” Noctis nods. “Then place them here and I’ll have them cleaned for you before you finish.”

He nods again, grateful, and pulls open the door to step into the stall. Aware of the old woman waiting on him he quickly strips out of his clothes and cracks open the door again the put them onto the bench.

It looks remarkably similar to a modern shower. Despite the simplicity of its outside appearance, the inside had multiple metal spouts and knobs attached to a large contraption that was definitely magitek - though it lacked the unsettling hum of Niflheim’s magitek. Through some the wooden slats he can see a complex network of piping for the water. The knobs weren’t labelled though, and there were more than two.

Impatiently, he turns one at random and gets blasted in the face with cold water.

His yelp must have been louder than he thought, because a concerned voice from the stall next his asks him if he’s okay.

“F-fine...all good.”

“...Right then.”

After some fiddling, he manages to get a steady spray of warm water and enjoys his first shower in what seems like an age. All the tension drops from his body immediately, and he groans so loudly it probably sounds indecent. There’s a couple of buttons near one of the knobs and, gingerly, Noctis presses it. A spout not raining water on him opens to deposit a healthy dollop of soap into his cupped hands. Convenient.

As he washes his hair he finds he the peace of the moment allows him to think about his mission properly for the first time.

 _So I have no plan_ , he ducks his head under the stream to wash away the soap. It smells fresh but nondescript, just as he likes it. _No idea of where to start_.

Everything had seemed much more simple in that other place, in the darkness of Etro’s chamber, sequestered away at the edge of reality. Now though, a million and one directions are available to him and he feels hopelessly out of his depth. He has no resources, and his friends aren’t here to help him through.

It’s achingly lonely.

He sighs and washes behind his ears, something like Ignis’ voice in his head telling him not to forget.

First, Noctis figures that getting the lay of the land is important - so he needs to get into the city. Ardyn had passingly mentioned that he might get that chance.

And there it was: Ardyn. The other piece of the puzzle, a huge part of all this that he doesn't know what to do with. He knows he’s supposed to stop him from absorbing the scourge, but with the man’s reputation in this world and Noctis’ _lack_ of a reputation he’s not sure how to do it. Demanding that he stop healing the sick and needy seems like a recipe for disaster.

Should he go after the source of the scourge first? If he can do that, he wouldn’t need to bother with convincing Ardyn of anything, and everything would fall into place anyway.

 _Maybe the Disc of Cauthess_ , he suddenly remembers the tales of the great meteor crashing into the land and bringing the scourge with it. _Sounds like a good place to start_.

It might mean facing up against Titan again, but Etro had assured him that things would go his way when it came to the Astrals. The little crystal pulses from where it rests against his chest, and he resolves to trust in it.

Right. Seemed simple enough: get into the city of Vesper, gather intel, maybe some resources, and make for the Disc of Cauthess to...what, exactly? Smack the big rock until it behaved?

 _Wing it, I guess_ , he thinks. _Like...everything else_.

He wonders if the cosmos really ever thought it through, making him the saviour of the world.        

 

*

 

He leaves his stall feeling better than he has in ages, the ends of his hair curling a little as it dries. True to her word, Agatha had laid out his freshly cleaned clothes on the bench, folded into a neat little bundle. There’s even a strap of leather that hadn’t been there before, to secure the large shirt at his waist. When Noctis changes into them, a distant part of his brain notes that the tunic doesn’t smell much like Ardyn anymore. It’s not a loss, but he was getting a bit used to it.

He forgoes pulling on his shoes, enjoying the feel of the grass under his feet. Instead he carries them, dangling from his fingers as he makes his way back to the tent - slowly, to take in the light of the sun streaming through the trees. A group of young girls run by him in a large procession, their laughter bell-like and joyful. He comes to a stop to let them pass, and one of them halts in front of him to place a necklace of white flowers around his neck; he nods his thanks and she takes off with a giggle, in a blaze of brightly coloured skirts billowing around her calves. The little charms around her ankle twinkle as she skips away, whimsical.

Noctis recalls Prompto sharing pictures of a popular music festival with him once. He hadn’t been able to come along since he had business, but he’d been happy to hear Prompto’s stories afterward: it had been terribly hip, a gathering place of rich college students who liked to party and Prompto’s clothes had smelled of booze and drugs for weeks after. He thinks, wryly, that he might fit into some of those photos now, among grinning faces with flower crowns and woven jewellery and anachronistic fashions. Except he was, as Prompto would say, “totally legit”.      

 

*

 

Nightfall comes in the blink of an eye, and much of the camp retreats back into their tents. Some of the more nocturnal folk set up their campfires and lanterns, small smatterings of light under a starry sky. Singing could be heard from the rowdier ones, knuckles beating against guitars and palms clapping together in the kind of folksy rhythms Noctis only ever heard in the deepest country. It felt safe and lively, not at all like people running for their lives and hinging all their hopes into one city.

All along the edge of the camp, one could see glowing runes carved into stones - keeping the daemons at bay.

 _Thousands of years apart_ , Noctis had thought, seeing them light up as the sun began to set. _And some problems stay the same_.

He had taken dinner with Lajos and some of his friends during the evening: fried fish and rice, the spoils of his efforts. Agatha had explained to him that volunteer fishing and hunting went to feeding the more destitute at the camp, as the nobles had their own means to eat. Agatha and a group of women had prepared the meals and served them in a designated corner of the camp, taking care of a long line of people so grateful that Noctis had felt heartbroken.

“There’s very little hope for them to get into the city,” Lajos had whispered to him, picking at the skin of his fish. His voice was serious, unlike the boisterous boy at the pond. “Me and the other lads, we have a chance because we can work - but many here will not make it in. And when we’re gone, who’s going to take care of them?”

It had been a tempting thing, to drop everything and put his efforts into curbing that injustice. But he could only watch, and try to steel his resolve to focus on his true mission.   

Now, in Ardyn’s tent, Noctis sits on the ground, the rug soft against his bare calves. He’s still wearing the wreath of flowers, comforted by its smell. He’s flipping through a book he can’t read when he hears the flap rustle.

Almost immediately, he can see how tired Ardyn is - the man’s shoulders sag in a way he’s not seen from him, the bags under his eyes heavier than before. His mouth isn’t even quirked in that smile that he always seems to wear, instead his lips are drawn down. Even his untamed hair, still held loose in its tie, seemed almost wilted. When he looks up and spies Noctis on the ground, he doesn’t hide his surprise: “I see you’ve elected to remain.”

“Yeah,” Noctis stands and walks over to take the man’s bag, bringing it over to the table. He takes a breath, summons all his kingly diplomacy skills to the forefront as he says, “I wanted to...apologize for earlier. You’ve been very gracious, and that was poor of me.”

He means it, too. It hadn’t helped that he had been hungry, dirty, and tired. Now though, he has the presence of mind to feel a little abashed. Starting fights wasn’t in his nature, regardless of who Ardyn is.

Ardyn inclines his head in a small nod, lips quirking into a tired smile. It looks like an effort.

“Well, I don’t blame you,” he says as he makes his way over to his bed. He doesn’t crumple into it, though Noctis gets the impression he would if he were alone. “As Grand Healer of the pitiable remains of the empire, I am expected to uphold the highest caliber of morality. Failing to adequately perform has much greater repercussions than a simple disagreement.”

Noctis shrugs, “I don’t know anything about the empire, or being Grand Healer. I was asking you as a person...and I should’ve give you the benefit of the doubt. As a person.”

Maybe not entirely true; he had been asking as someone sent back to deliver the hand of judgement, to save the life of a man whose soul _had_ to have been worth it. The moment had meaning beyond this Ardyn’s ability to understand it and now, Noctis realizes, that was unfair of him. The man in front of him is a different person from the one he knows, and Noctis isn’t here to decide if Ardyn deserved saving. He had made his decision to come back - now, he just had to honour it. It was going to be hard, but Noctis was nothing if not persistent.

“I am no simple ‘person’,” says Ardyn, looking at his coat on the bed. He’s not moving, lost in some thought or another. His hands are lax at his sides, and it’s strange to not see them grandly gesturing like he usually does. It’s like he’s deflated. “I live in the lap of many luxuries my dear, but that is not one.”

“You are to me.”

It comes out a little intense, Noctis could admit, but it’s the truth. All of his stay here has been formed by lies upon lies, and he feels a deep seated need for this simple honesty. Not just for himself, but for Ardyn too. At that thought, he feels the last of his earlier anger burn away.

Ardyn looks over at him with a small turn of his head, though his body remains still. Noctis meets his gaze, schools his face into something calmer than he feels.

They watch each other for a few quiet, tense moments. It’s not quite a standoff, nothing so aggressive, but Noctis resolves to hold firm anyway.

It works, because Ardyn turns away first. He bends down to take his coat from the bed with one hand and loosens his tunic with the other; Noctis glances away to give him privacy. When he looks back it seems the other man has resettled himself into something more steady, distanced from the tired and vulnerable person that he was just scant moments before. He’s adjusting his collar, fingering at his bare neck and looking around the tent with his brows pinched.

“Oh,” Noctis remembers and walks over to where his jacket is still draped. He reaches into it and pulls out Ardyn’s scarf. “Here...I was meaning to give it back to you earlier.”

“Ah, wonderful,” he responds, voice light again. He gingerly takes it from Noctis’ hands - Noctis notices the care he takes not to touch his fingers. “I would so loathe to lose it - it was a gift you see, from the princess of Tenebrae, woven by her hands.”

The name makes him jump a little, breath hitching in his throat. He’s not talking about Luna, of course he isn’t, but Noctis will never be able to hear of Tenebrae without thinking of her - of a sagely young girl in a white dress skipping through fields of sylleblossoms, of a warm and gentle voice that takes his cares away. It’s still so hard, even now, to think of her and not to feel like he completely failed.

Ardyn fastens the scarf around his collar with quick, practised ease, not noticing that Noctis is having a small crisis a few paces away.

Heavy footsteps approach the entrance and the flap rustles, drawing both men out of their heads. The man who enters is taller than even Ardyn, with long pale hair down to nearly his waist. He’s clad in some rather impressive-looking armour - every inch of it engraved, and the cloth draped down his sides is a deep maroon, so lush in its colour that Noctis knows this is someone very important. His features are pointed, brooding, and elegant - harsh jawline, cheekbones so sharp they could cut and a tall, noble nose. The expression on his face is rather dour and inexplicably, Noctis is reminded a little bit of Ravus.

Icy blue eyes sweep over Noctis first, and Noctis unconsciously straightens in response. The man seems satisfied he’s not a threat, and brings his attention to Ardyn.

“You have dawdled long enough,” he says. His voice is smooth and imperious, commanding in that way of men who have seen war at its worst; if the armour hadn’t denoted his station, his voice certainly would. “Come, it is time to go into the city and attend to the duties you have been shirking.”

Despite how seriously the stranger speaks, Ardyn chuckles loftily in response: “Gil my darling, surely you’ve not reduced yourself to a messenger boy? Or an armed escort? I can see myself into the city under my own power, you know.”

“Evidently not, if the angry messages I have been receiving from the First Secretary have told me anything. Nearly a day you have been here, yet you have not met with the governor.” He pauses, and emphasizes, “ _as per protocol_.”

“The old man is simply impatient as always, pay him no mind. It would do him well to do some waiting.”

"Gil" snorts at that, and raises his hand from his hip - Noctis notices the pristine white lily he’s holding delicately in his gauntlet for the first time. He extends it toward Ardyn, “A woman impressed upon me that I must bring this to you at all cost - along with a quivering message about _feelings_ that I have elected to forget most of.”

Ardyn strides over to pluck the flower from his hand and brings it grandly to his nose, an amused smirk on his face.

“Are you certain it wasn’t for you, using me as a guise? You underestimate your brutish charms, Gil - what starry-eyed maid could resist?”

“The sheer desperation with which she described your ‘molten gold eyes’ and ‘sinfully lush lips’ tells me otherwise.”

Noctis looks between them as they trade barbs, feeling distinctly out of place. Despite the other man’s harshness, they speak like friends, and isn’t that just the strangest sight? Ardyn with friends, with people he bantered with on equal footing. Ardyn appears to sense his confusion because he gestures to the stranger as he walks around the tent and gathers some materials, “Noctis, if I may introduce you to Lord Gilgamesh, my brother’s sworn shield, and former High Commander of Solheim’s Imperial Army.”

“ _General_ ,” Gilgamesh corrects, peevish. “I never commanded a destroyer, Ardyn, you _know_ this.”

Ardyn sniffs dismissively: “Oh hush, it’s all the same martial nonsense anyway.”

“I see. I shall endeavor to introduce you as a _nurse_ from now on, then.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Noctis freezes. Gilgamesh - the Shield of _the Founder King_ ; Noctis’ distant ancestor, the man who would take the throne from Ardyn and damn his entire family line to Ardyn’s wrath for generations. Somehow, in the entire time Noctis has been here, he’s managed to _completely forget_ about that part of the puzzle.

“And this is Noctis,” continues Ardyn, oblivious to the Noctis becoming rigid and pale next to him. “My guest.”

“Your guest.” Gilgamesh repeats, voice flat. His eyes scan Noctis again, clearly suspicious. A little bit judging, too. Noctis finds himself feeling a little offended. “You are not one to invite _guests_ into your space, Ardyn. Do not patronize me; you need not disguise your carnal entanglements to spare my sensibilities.”

Noctis unfreezes to sputter, though Ardyn doesn’t seem phased by any of it.

“Hey - no, we’re not -”

“At the risk of being a complete cliché,” remarks Ardyn, amused as he inspects his fingernails. “‘It’s not what it looks like’ - he truly is just a guest. A lost soul on the road I stumbled upon, I fear. You have not interrupted anything untoward, my dear Gil.”

Ardyn pauses, and then glances over at Noctis to suggestively raise his brow: “Despite my efforts, it seems.”

“ _Uh_ -!” Noctis stumbles. 

Gilgamesh gives them both a look so unimpressed that Noctis could swear the temperature in the tent drops.  

Ardyn sighs and dramatically throws up his hands: “Oh fine, I will come along and meet with the old rat -”

“ _Ardyn_.”

“Assuaging whatever worries he’s decided to heap upon me _this time_ , stroking the appropriate egos, and so on.” Ardyn adjusts his impeccable jacket and turns to Noctis, rolling his eyes conspiratorially. “What a bore - but duty calls, yes?”

Before Noctis can respond, he continues, “You may use this tent tonight, as I don’t imagine you have anywhere else to stay.”

Noctis gives the bed a dubious look. The only bed in the tent. Ardyn chuckles at his expression: “Oh dear, no need to worry; I have proper lodgings in the city and will not be returning here tonight. The space is all yours.”

“Will you be coming back tomorrow?” Noctis tries to keep the note of hope from his voice. He needs to make sure that he remains in Ardyn’s company - at least until he can get his bearings and figure out his next move; if they’re separated now he’s not sure what he’ll do.

“Very likely,” he responds and moves toward Gilgamesh, who is already pulling back the flap to leave. He seems to think of something and stops before he reaches the entrance, turning to stride back to Noctis who holds his breath as Ardyn looms over him. Slowly, and gently, so as not to startle him, Ardyn reaches up and tucks the lily behind Noctis’ ear. “There, a lovely bouquet.”

With that, he turns with a wave and leaves the tent: “Rest well, Noctis.”

They leave, and once again Noctis is alone, wondering at the state of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This world-changing mission I'm on? Totally gonna wing it!" Says Noctis.
> 
> Somewhere, worlds away, Ignis is pulling his hair.


	4. Chapter Four - A World Away From Home, Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis awakes to a new day - with new things to do, and new things to learn.

Noctis isn’t a stranger to roughing it without a bed. Still, the feeling of getting to crash in one after going without is a wholly underrated pleasure.

Outside the tent, he hears the distant chirping of birds along with the rousing populace of the camp; shuffling feet, quiet conversation, the heavy dragging of equipment. He feels boneless, like he had been fused into the bed during the night - leaving seems like the worst idea imaginable. He shifts in his spot, stretching out his legs and feeling his bones pop with a groan. He blinks blearily up at the roof of the tent, eyes trailing across one of the beams and a string of dangling metal charms.

There hadn’t been any dreams last night, to his relief.

Slowly, he sits up and stretches again before pulling the blanket off his body - the air hits his bare legs and he resists the urge to hide back in the bed. He’d taken his clothes off to sleep, clad in only his underwear, because the summer air had gotten muggier as night fell and the tent had been warm.

 _Don’t remember the last time I slept that good_...he thinks, feeling pleased all over. He wiggles his toes in satisfaction, like a cat.

He stands and makes his way to where he’d placed his clothes in a pile on top of a table, next to the wreath of flowers and the lily from Ardyn’s admirer. Just as he reaches out for the shirt, the tent’s flap rustles and he swerves his head to see Lajos coming in with a plate and a cup.

“Morning sir Noctis,” he greets, voice sunny, then seems to notice his state of undress and blushes hard enough to see through his sun-kissed skin. “Er - I brought you breakfast, at the madam’s request...I’ll just...leave it here.”

“Uh, thanks.” Noctis quickly pulls the tunic over his head as Lajos places the food onto the other table.

“When you’ve finished, Agatha has requested your presence,” Lajos says, less awkward now that Noctis is covered. “She’ll be attending to business nearby, you won’t miss her...enjoy.”

The man waves and quickly shuffles out of the tent; Noctis stares as the flap settles down behind him with dawning dread.

 _Kid has a_ crush _on me_ , he thinks, kind of stupefied. _Like this? Really_?

He’d dealt with enough red-faced girls, and the occasional stuttering boy, awkwardly eyeing him up in his high school days to recognize the signs when he sees it. Even into his young adulthood, during his brief stint in university and then into his travels with the guys, they ran into interested people often enough. And if it wasn’t Noctis, it was one of the others: most people were generally too intimidated to actually approach Gladio, but Ignis had gotten his share of admirers. Prompto too, though he usually waved it off with a blush and never seemed to buy it.  

Noctis runs a hand through his hair and decides to take it as a compliment. He’d come into the camp as a weird, dirty stranger with an shady story - he supposes he should be flattered that someone managed to still be into him despite that.

Abruptly, he remembers Ardyn’s flirting the night before, the smell of him hovering close as he threaded the flower’s stem through Noctis’ hair, and the low purr of his voice as he bid Noctis good night.

He clears his throat, shakes his head, and resolves not to think about it. Instead, he glances down at his breakfast as he pulls on his pants; there are several pieces of what looks like flat bread lined up on one side of the plate and a big, thick dollop of some kind of light brown spread on the other.

Curious, he takes a piece of bread and swipes it through the sauce before bringing it to his mouth. It’s really good, nothing like he’s ever tasted before - rich in smell and flavour. He doesn’t have Ignis’ palate, but he does make out the heady taste of garlic and salt.   

He ends up clearing the whole thing in a matter of minutes, and after he downs the cup of water he makes his way out of the tent to start the day.   

 

*

 

Noctis ends up getting a little turned around, distracted by taking in the all the sights around him, and winds up back in the camp’s market. He likes looking at all the stalls and trying to figure out what some of the wares are, especially now that he’s refreshed and not dragging his heels around like some grime-covered zombie.

Most are obvious necessities: food, clothing, medicines. There are only a handful that sell weapons and none have anything bigger than bows or short swords. As his eyes rove over the selections, he wonders if it means the people of Solheim are on the whole less trained for fighting than the average Lucian, or if it was for camp safety. Wartime in Lucis meant weapons traders were everywhere, and no end to hunters looking to fill their inventories.  

 _Gladio would be shit out of luck_ , he thinks fondly, looking at the decorative hilt of a long knife - something Ignis might have liked. _Always seemed to be out of his element with the little stuff_.

A barrage of shouting voices pulls him out of his reverie.

“How dare you, _how dare you_ -!”

“Please, keep your voice down madam!”

As he pushes through the crowd toward the commotion, he spots the familiar sight of the vendor who sold him the elixir, standing behind her stall and clutching tightly at her shawl as another, older woman screams at her. Going by her lavish clothing, she’s of noble class, her glittering earrings and bangles alone likely worth more than the girl’s entire stock.

“I shall not! How dare you parade such a thing around! Have you no mind of where you are, girl?!” the woman snaps, gesturing sharply at the girl’s shawl - the one with the Astrals - with a flick of her fingers. With a surge of understanding, Noctis can see the clear image of Ifrit hovering on her shoulder.

“I do - and I wear it proudly!” the girl snaps back, knuckles white where she grips the cloth. “My faith is unmoved! The Pyreburner will renounce his judgement once atonement has been made!”

“You wretch! You _utter wretch_! My son died at the hands of that devil!”

“Please,” whimpers the girl, her voice trembling but her eyes still fierce. “Please do not speak his name in such a way...I am sorry for your son, my lady, but the gods’ ways are not ours! We mustn’t lose faith.”

“I _had_ faith!” the noble shouts, tears streaming down her eyes and cheeks ruddy with rage. Her pain twists her aristocratic features into something raw, something more like the rest of them. “And my faith was rewarded with the ruin of my line! Don’t you dare lecture me, you foolish girl, you know nothing!”

She spits in the girl’s face and flings one of the bottles off her table. The shattering of glass makes a waves among the bystanders and the noblewoman storms off as they gasp. Noctis is pushed off balance as the crowd moves to make way for her, and when everyone rights themselves again he looks back at the vendor to see her wiping her face with the edge of her shawl, eyes red and puffy. Her lips are quivering, and no one comes to her aid.  

He makes his way over to her, and in the gentlest voice he can, asks if she’s all right.

She nods, with a trembling breath. “I will be fine. It is a battle we fight every day, the faithful and the faithless both. Even if she disagrees, I do understand her pain...else I would not be here.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the money pouch Ardyn had given him the day before, and takes out some coins. “Here,” he says. “I’ll cover what the lady broke.”

“Oh no,” the girl shakes her head. “I could never accept it. Do not worry yourself stranger, it is no great loss.”

“Nope, I insist,” he takes one of her hands and places the coins into her palm before closing her delicate little fingers around them. Then he drops her hand and quickly hides his arms behind his back as she tries to return it. “Uh-uh, sorry, I guess it’s yours now.”

“But -”

“I gotta be off,” he interrupts, already turning on his heel and giving her wave and a smile. “Bye!”

And he’s off, side-stepping the broken glass on the ground and makes his way back toward Ardyn’s tent.

 

*

 

“Ah, there you are my boy,” says Agatha, looking him over when he finally finds her. She’s mending a dress by the looks of it, seated on a chair by a small tent he doesn’t recognize. “Took a stroll?”

“Figuring things out,” he smiles, hands on his hips. “It’s nice when people don’t move out of the way because I smell, y’know.”

She laughs at that: “These may be war times, young man, but the sensibilities of folk from _peace_ times don’t disappear that easily.”

She inspects a stitch with a critical eye, continuing: “It’s been that way across every war. I’ve seen enough in my time to know this.”

“You mean, before the Astral war?” he sits down on a chair next to her, watching as a couple of men pass by carrying a heavy, wooden machine of some kind. He honestly couldn’t begin to guess its purpose.

“Of course,” she mutters. “The ones amongst fellow men even moreso. At least the gods are already beyond us all. The great conceit of fighting your fellow man is that you can distance yourself from his traditions, his beliefs, his ways of being; carry on as if some great morality divides you both.”

She bites the thread with her teeth: “But in the end we will all feed the worms together, my boy, deep in the dirt - the place of our birth.”

She doesn’t pause in her sewing, though her voice grows somber, “Fighting gods however, grants no such satisfaction. We will never die alongside them; only on their behalf.”

Noctis thinks of the throne room back in the Citadel - facing down his fate, the barrage of the old Kings, Bahamut and Shiva coalescing into the mortal world to take down their old comrade in his aid, leaving him to land the final blow. Thinks of Etro, pleading for him to grant her yet another favour amongst the countless he’s given the gods - and his own acceptance, because it seems that he just can’t leave destiny well enough alone.

And yeah, maybe he kind of gets it.

 

*

 

Agatha has him doing various chores through the day, and he’s happy to help: there is a stint at boar hunting with Lajos’ and his friends, setting up tents for the folks less able, gathering wood in the forest, and even a little bit of amateur stonemasonry where he mostly just watches. It’s productive, and the menial work clears the thoughts buzzing in his head. There are even moments where he manages to forget that he doesn’t actually _belong_ here.

She helps him get some more clothes, some of which are donated from Lajos and the other men, murmuring in disapproval at how big Ardyn’s tunic is on him - she said it made him look, “underfed and waifish, and that will not do”.

Freshly showered and full from his late lunch, he carries the bundle of clothes to Ardyn’s tent, his duties done for the day. He’s changed into something more fitting: a sleeveless, dark grey work shirt, a pair of leather riding trousers he’d been given during the hunt, and boots made of some indiscernible animal hide to protect his feet when working with stone. It feels good not to be swimming in fabric, less like he’s some kid playing dress up.

Noctis sets the bundle on one of the seats and collapses back onto the bed, his feet still in their boots and planted on the ground. His whole body aches from the labour. He closes his eyes, just for a minute, to soak in the comfort of the mattress and finely-made bedding.

Just for a minute.  

When he opens them, blearily, he’s greeted by the sight of Ardyn’s blurred face hovering over him, looking intensely amused. Noctis yelps from the shock and scrambles to sit up, and the other man backs away to avoid an accidental headbutt.

“Do people normally sleep that way where you’re from?” asks Ardyn, mildly. “It seems a mite uncomfortable. Why, you haven’t even removed your shoes.”

He even gives Noctis’ boot a light kick to make his point.

“Ugh, no,” he rubs his eyes and calms his racing heart. “Do people watch other people sleep where _you’re_ from?”

He gets a laugh at that.

Noctis glances over at the tent’s flap and sees the sunlight still streaming through the cracks. He’s not sure how long he was out for, and Ardyn never specified when he’d come back. He looks the man over, notices something a little different.

“You cut your hair…” he says, and it feels dumb the moment it leaves his mouth.

The tie is gone, and his hair is shorter - about where it normally would be, fluffy and grazing at his big shoulders. He looks just like Noctis remembers him - he just needs that awful hat.

The warm expression adorning face is the only difference, and Noctis finds himself latching onto it, reminding himself not to fear this man. He stares hard, eyes roving over his features perhaps too intensely, not that Ardyn seems at all perturbed.

Distantly, Noctis wonders if anyone is capable of making this unflappable man stumble.

“Yes, well,” Ardyn flicks some of his hair and it bounces with a flair - like everything else about him. “It was about time. Horribly impractical when one works in medicine, you see.”

“Ah.” Noctis doesn’t have much to say about that, runs a nervous hand through his own mane.

“I trust you managed to have some adequate sleep?” asks Ardyn as he goes to one of the tables and sits himself down.

“Yeah, thanks for loaning me your bed.”

He’s back to flitting his hands over all the ingredients again, making more concoctions; Noctis wonders what they all are.

Silence settles in the tent, the only sounds coming from Ardyn crushing herbs or stirring fluids together - healing balms and life-saving brews. Noctis watches him from the bed, marvelling at how strange the sight of it is: the true Ardyn, the healer who travelled the lands and took care of people, not the bitter maniac who wanted to see everything burn. He can hear the sounds of the refugees in the camp, muffled by the tent’s walls, and wonders how many of them are alive because of this man in front of him.

“How was your business in the city?” he eventually asks, watching as vials get stoppered.

“Dreadfully _boring_ and unproductive,” Ardyn says, with a drawn out sigh. “Pray you never need to spend your precious working hours protecting the delicate sensibilities of bureaucrats and nobles - it’s as mind numbing as it is sickening. Today I fully intend to make up for wasted time and get back to my proper duties.”

“Back to healing, then?”

“My life’s work,” nods Ardyn, smiling faintly; it’s one of his genuine ones, not the placid expression that he always seems to wear on his face by default. “And the passion of my heart.”

It must be true, because he exudes contentment. It’s palpable enough that even Noctis feels at ease just watching him.

“Do...you need any help?” he asks, voice unsure. He’s not a healer by any means, not even sure what he _could_ offer as help, but it feels appropriate.

Ardyn turns his head at looks at him, brows raised in curiosity; he has a handsome profile, sharp and aristocratic. It’s marred, slightly, by the heavy bags under his eyes and the exhaustion dragging down his mouth.

“Surely you’ve been hard at work all day, my dear, if I know Agatha at all,” he remarks, turning back to slicing up some kind of root on a slab of wood. “No need to deny yourself rest on my account.”

Noctis shrugs, watching the long span of Ardyn’s finger against the blade of the knife, “I’ve got energy. More than you, I’d say.”

Ardyn chuckles and says, voice silky: “Oh, of that, I’ve no doubt.”

There’s that flirting again. He wonders if that is just the man’s natural state or if Noctis is just special.  

“I have no need of any assistance today,” continues Ardyn, adding the sliced roots to his stone bowl. “Just a few standard check-ins with the newer batch of refugees - though I appreciate your offer.”

“Sure, your call.”

He does finish his preparations eventually, and Noctis realizes that he’s spent the entire time watching him in silence. The awkwardness that permeated most of their interactions at the beginning seems like it’s starting to recede, and he isn’t sure how that happened. Inside, he feels slightly off-balance, alarmed that he’s getting _comfortable_.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ardyn reaches into his long jacket and pulls out what looks like a card. “I managed to expedite your registration - here is your pass into the city.”

Noctis stands and pads over to him, shock on his face. “Thank you...I don’t know what to say.”

“It was very little trouble,” he responds, smirking. “There are _some_ benefits to being forced to deal with the upper echelons of society, you know.”

Noctis only nods. That, he knows well.

“Here you are,” Ardyn looks down at the pass before gliding his eyes back to Noctis’. “Noctis Sophiar.”

His head tilts as he considers Noctis’ form. Voice dripping with amusement, he asks, “Is that your real name, my mysterious amnesiac?”

Noctis holds his gaze and keeps his face blank as he responds, “Sure is.”

For a moment, Ardyn only continues to smile indulgently at him, as if waiting for him to crack and give up the whole facade. When he doesn’t, he just shrugs grandly and hands the card over. “I do so hope you’re not an agent of chaos, here to kill us all. I would be quite cross with you. And myself, for making this terribly easy.”

Noctis tucks the pass into his shirt and gives him a tired grin in turn. He’s grateful that he doesn’t seem to care all that much that Noctis has been lying about everything since he’s gotten here; it’s an unexpected perk of the man’s eccentricity. At least they’re both in on it.  

Deception is a hard business, and incredibly draining. He just might not be built for it - at least fighting things head-on was simpler.

He sighs, running his fingers along his jaw, whisking them through his beard.

“Something the matter?”

“It’s nothing, just thinking I might need a shave.”

“Oh, say it isn’t so - the beard is quite fetching, if I may say so.”

Noctis finds himself blushing and turns his head away, shuffling on the spot. “It makes me feel old.”

At the corner of his vision, Ardyn shrugs and gets off the chair to walk toward the trunk; Noctis hears the creak of the lid and the rustling of fabrics. He turns to see the other man standing and holding a bundle of cloth toward him, face expectant.

“What’s that?”

“For your shaving needs.”

He takes it and lays it flat on the bed, pulling the leather cord and unwrapping it to see a straight razor - _seriously old school_ , he thinks - along with a brush with a few bottles of what he assumes to be cream. He picks up the blade and looks it over: sharp, with a handle made of polished wood adorned by a gold engraving of something in a language he can’t read. Very classy, a piece he might have seen in a collector’s specialty set back home.

“I…” can’t use this, he wants to say, but finds himself embarrassed to admit. He’s never needed to shave much, his younger self finding it very difficult to grow a beard. On the few times he ever did, it was always with an electric razor. Still, Ardyn is looking at him expectantly. “I’ve never used one of these before…”

“Ah,” strangely, Ardyn’s expression turns understanding. “I’m afraid there are no magitek razors about, my boy - they’ve not yet come into fashion outside the capitol.”

The thought that Solheim had been advanced enough to use their magitek for mundane things like _razors_ is a little terrifying, Noctis admits. Even Niflheim only reserved that power for military use.

“I - I see.” He turns the blade this way and that, watching the light catch. If Ignis had ever been able to grow facial hair, he imagines this would have been something he would’ve used. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

Ardyn sidles up next to him and looks over his face, “If you like, I can help you.”

“What?”

“Oh my, you’re looking at me as though I might slit your throat,” remarks Ardyn, brow raised. He doesn’t look upset, though. “Surely it’s preferable to have me do it for you than to nick your face like an adolescent boy, yes?”

An image of himself with his jaw dotted with little squares of bloodied tissue paper pops into his mind, like the overzealous boys in his high school days. The pre-emptive embarrassment that comes with it is almost too much to handle: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Saviour to the Star - can strike down gods but can’t even shave his own face.

Unbidden, he blurts: “Just want to get your hands back on me, huh?”

 _Why would you say that_.

Thankfully, Ardyn only laughs, shoulders shaking and head thrown back. At least _someone_ found it amusing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw when you gotta have your archnemesis put a knife to your neck and can't decide between having him flirt with you or open up your jugular. :P 
> 
> also noct is so handsome and charming in his own awkward way, i'm convinced he'd break hearts wherever he went.


End file.
